little lamb, stained in red
by White Silver and Mercury
Summary: The hands before, the hands now. The same stains. The same dirty smell, the same sick feeling in his gut. This was the shame of Ciel Phantomhive. // M for graphic/sexual content and dark themes; Sebastian/Ciel.
1. part the first: vocat

_little lamb, stained in red._

_**Disclaimers**_**: I do not own Kuroshitsuji; nor do I own any of the quotes/lyrics used between scenes.**

_**Rating/Warning**_**: M for mature themes—direct references to sexual abuse, child abuse, occult and cult activity, and lots of otherwise "normal" sex; brief reference to opium use somewhere along the way, so small you might even miss it; graphic/dark content.**

_**A/N**_**: I started this three months ago, in February while I was in Tampa for Chess try-outs. Now I'm back in Tampa for the summer, so I don't know, it's kind of like it's come full-circle for the fic, lol. n_n; I've been dying to post it, but I just haven't felt it was ready until now. And, I mean, even **_**now**_ **I'm still nervous because every author is their worst critic, but I've stalled long enough. It's done and there's more to come through the summer, hopefully.**

* * *

_Henceforth I ask of you:_

_what else is insanity, but love? _

_Tempt not a desperate man._

* * *

**part the first.**

_**vocat.**_

* * *

Hands, reaching for him.

Greedy, gluttonous, disturbed—these hands that rattled the cuffs on his wrists just to see the way he winced as the metal hit his little wrist bones, that slid the key into the lock and pulled him forth for some play-time. Usually in some strange room that was dark and smelled like mold and dirt, and he was never alone. Hands on his shoulders, on his back. On his face, tangled in his hair. Touching, stealing, forcing. And the maniacal smiles of the onlookers, debating their next move in this auction. Demonstrations, lessons, play-time.

_This is what this little lamb can do. Isn't he great at it? I taught him myself. _

His hands, slithering through the bars, grasping for something to pull him out. How many times he'd tried to push himself through those bars in one month-how many times he'd prayed he'd be skinny enough to wriggle through. And the girl in the far corner of his cell—the girl that had tried to hold his hand the first time she'd been scared—she'd gone crazy after a while, kicking and screaming and thrashing and eventually knocking herself out against the bars, like a little songbird whose captivity and life danced along on demands to sing had driven her over the edge into insanity.

Sebastian's hands, prying open the space between earth and hell, flitting up like a raven, nevermore, nevermore, and as he swooped towards land, what touched the grimy stone near the altar was the toe of a boot and not a clawed talon, not at all. And Sebastian's hands, stroking blood-stained hair out of his empty eyes as he peered up at him and wondered, _Is this God? _

Hands again, his own. Fisted in the bed sheets-fisted in a waistcoat—clutching at the arms of his chair—and hands hidden by soft, worn white gloves. Beneath, they were smooth and adroit, somehow delicate, exfoliated by the sands of time. Milky white, slender and mature, the seal of the contract-their unholy sacrament, a star rotting the epidermal cells into an organic tattoo—sunken into the white flesh just below the knuckles. Black nails, prickling his skin. Experienced fingertips, exploring warm parts of him as innocent as behind the ear, as depraving as the heat between his legs. Talented, focused hands, never once mistrusted. On his skin. Between his lips. Unbuttoning his suits and smoothing up his inner thighs, tucking strands of dark hair behind his ear—and they were his decisions being made, because he was in control.

The hands before, the hands now.

The same dirty feeling, the same sick twist in his gut.

Despair and guilt before had never been prefaced by a burning need, but that was because he'd been ignorant. Young, stupid, innocent. The despair and guilt came after the need, now—now and again, old friends that liked to visit but never called beforehand—shuttling through the pleasure and wracking his frame even as he tried to soothe it.

This was the shame of Ciel Phantomhive.

* * *

_While man's desires and aspirations stir, he can not choose but err._

_My peace is gone, my heart is heavy._

Goethe, _Faust_.

* * *

He had to turn his head a little farther than comfortable to see out the window from where he sat in the big lavender Bocelli in his office, but even though he couldn't see the broad lawn below, the breeze and the bright, sweet-scented light reached him at his desk. Tudor windows unlocked and opened just a crack to allow in some fresh air, the sound of birds and leaves rustling in the wind. The time before eleven o'clock was always so peaceful—and as it was, the clock across the room read ten thirty-five, and Ciel closed his eyes again, relaxing into the seatback cushions of the big armchair.

The maid, Sebastian said, was occupied with cleaning the bathrooms, scrubbing the tile and porcelain and glass (which were all thankfully built into the floors and walls, so she could not knock anything over unless she really, honestly tried); the chef and the gardener, Sebastian also said, had been sent in to town to pick up some fresh meat for dinner and a good number of flower bulbs, now that winter was drawing to an end

_spring, in like a lion, out like a lamb_

and the weather was clearing up; and Tanaka, Sebastian said last, was in his office going over contracts and other business proposals and all their fine print, preparing papers regarding the company to discuss with the earl after elevenses, before the meeting with Woodsworth's executive at lunch.

And the breeze danced in through the windows and tickled Ciel's skin, and he let out a sigh as Sebastian climbed up off his knees, tucking stray strands of hair behind his ears as he smoothed down his trousers where he'd been kneeling.

"Oh, dear," he murmured, retrieving his gloves from the corner of the desk, huffing a breath and frowning to himself as he brushed his palms off on his thighs, redressed his hands.

Ciel's eyes rolled open, if only just halfway, and through his lashes he peered up at Sebastian with a light head, body tingling. His fingertips still shook; he'd managed to calm his breath, but his heart was still hammering his breastbone, lost somewhere between its throne in his chest and the bottom of his throat. His lower back ached now that the muscles relaxed, and his thighs, too, and the breeze caressed his cheeks, his neck, his fingers—and his clavicle, and his chest, and his stomach, where his skin was still hot. Sebastian had already tucked him back into his drawers, and he sat with his thighs spread and his feet flat on the floor and the buttons of his trousers still open, slouched in his Bocelli. Where his garters sat an inch above his socks and the hem of his shorts ended at his knees, the cool air trickling in from outside slid up and chilled the higher parts of his legs in turn.

Sebastian reached for the cloth near the half-finished cup of tea on the desk, crouched down and dabbed at his master's stomach—wiped up the bit of stickiness here and there near his navel. Their eyes met briefly—one dark blue connecting with two the color of cherrywood—and another little breath passed from behind Ciel's lips, a long sigh as his lashes lowered again.

"I'm sorry, young master," Sebastian whispered. "I'll be tidier next time."

Ciel smiled wearily and raised two fingers, wagging them back and forth in a weak motion of dismissal, and then his smile faded into another sigh and he closed his eyes as Sebastian gently laid the rag atop the desk and pulled him up, out of his chair. Sebastian returned to knee before him as he tucked his shirt back into the waist of his pants, buttoned them and smoothed the green cotton twill before closing the shirt in turn; climbed to a stand as he worked his way up the front of the suit, fastening the custom buttons and retying the ribbon beneath his collar, smoothing any other wrinkles out of his shoulders and arms.

There was a moment of silence as he stood with his hands on the young earl's shoulders, the boy with his eyes still closed and mouth curled in a faint smile. Groggy with the residual high of their secret rendezvous, nerves still buzzing with the ecstasy. But almost immediately, it was draining away, and Ciel's mouth wavered and his brow knotted, his lips twisted into a thin line, and he felt his butler thumbing the tears out of the eye that he could even before he'd known they were truly there and not stuck in the back of his head.

_I do like it, really_, he wanted to say, in simple reassurance, although he was sure that his butler needed not any words of comfort—so he cleared his throat instead, pulling away from Sebastian and dragging the Bocelli closer to his desk again, plopping heavily into it. He tested his tea to see if it was still warm enough, then licked his lips and motioned to the emptiness of his desktop.

"Have Tanaka come in earlier," he said. "We've got a lot to discuss today."

"Yes, young sir," Sebastian returned, and picked up the cloth and the tray he'd brought the tea in upon. Ciel held up a hand, and Sebastian paused, blinking down at him from the corner of the desk. The boy's little hand was a flicker of white as it darted across the desk to the tray and grabbed the last butterfly cake he hadn't eaten earlier, and he cast a glance at the butler as he ate a corner of it, raising his brows.

"Go on," he grunted around his mouthful, and Sebastian nodded curtly, coattails shifting about his calves as he slipped out of the room.

Ciel licked the crumbs off his fingers, ankles crossed and one foot wagging where his toes dusted the floor.

* * *

_I'm the king of the castle, and you're a dirty rascal._

* * *

He remembered the afternoon he'd watched the snake Lau had brought over strangle its dinner—a defenseless little mouse, coiled up in the thing's tail, limbs stuck straight out and stiff as oxygen slowed down on its way to its minuscule brain, eventually stalling altogether. The mouse had been white at first, but in the end had somehow turned a little purple, and the snake choked it down with ease. Sebastian had stood behind him, watching in turn, for the entire stretch of silence in the den as the snake ate its dinner, and after the last furry end of the mouse was in the snake's throat, Ciel had turned and glanced at Sebastian over his shoulder—and, observing the grave, introspective look on Sebastian's face, he'd thought that that had been a very intimate thing to watch with him.

He dreamed that night that he was back in the rusty iron cell he'd lived in but hadn't called home for one month, surrounded by dank darkness, and something was swallowing him whole. But the room the little cage was in was so dark that he couldn't see what it was, he could only feel the resilient, wet mouth stretched about his thighs as his feet and legs disappeared further into the moist depths hidden somewhere in the shadows, and the thing trying to eat him made its way up towards his hips. His dream self attempted escape numerous times, and when he jerked awake, he let out an involuntary cry as he gripped at the blankets, because the sound of his shackles rattling was still there—

Except that it was only Sebastian, opening his curtains, and the sound of the rings clattering on the curtain rods.

* * *

_His little whispers—love me, love me. That's all I ask for—love me, love me. _

* * *

It wasn't a matter of pride.

It _couldn't_ be a matter of pride, because if it was, then he wouldn't be doing it.

* * *

_And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, and the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;  
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted nevermore!_

* * *

The sconces in the billiard room were empty; the lights overhead in the frescoed ceiling had been updated recently, wired with only the best of the new technology, just as he'd had the hot water pipes installed a while ago. Amongst a plethora of leather-bound volumes and dusty collections lining the walls were a few new purchases—_The Senses and the Intellect_, _The Alchemist, Saducismus Triumphatus_, Rosecrucian texts and other books of similar ideas picked up by a little gloved hand in the public library, bought while the same little gloved hands smoothed over book spines and little footsteps echoed on the marble and a young man in an overcoat handed forth the money, with a too-small cane and tallhat in his free hand and a charming smile on his face.

And the new books sat neatly where Sebastian had slid them into the bookcase closest to the door, while Ciel laced his fingers and pressed them to the ornate ridge of the corner of the billiard table, watching the butler carefully from the corner of his eye, wagging his foot where his toe pressed to the carpet.

Because regardless of how big the manor was and how many corners of it were in need of the attention of the other hired help, there were times that it was excruciatingly difficult to find a moment of _isolation_ such as this one.

There were locks on the doors, of course, and that often worked the best when the need wasn't so intense, but there were also the rare moments that found him scrabbling for an out, gnashing his teeth and clenching his fists at the other servants—rare moments that sometimes led to a detour from duties upon an innocuous excursion to the recreation room—where he let Sebastian cross the room from the bookshelves and hoist him up, set him on the edge of the billiard table with his feet in the air and Sebastian's slender waist between his knees, and his hands fisted in the lapels of the butler's tailcoat as gloved hands clawed at his sides—all around, along his back, up his chest, down his hips.

His rear end slid off the polished wooden edge of the table and hit the green felt of the tabletop, and his back arched as Sebastian's hands wrapped around his thighs, pressing chest to chest. He cocked his head back and let warm, wet lips move instantly to his neck, covering the skin there with a barrage of kisses and nibbles and swirls of tongue. And the head of the Phantomhive household bucked and beat a balled fist against his butler's shoulder, and didn't mind the kiss on his mouth one bit, because it was a need to be fulfilled, burning in his chest and knotting up his stomach and quickening his breath.

Sebastian's hair was fine and clean, smooth, soft through his fingertips, and he smelled like many different things—fresh soap and perfumes, clean clothes, beeswax polish, the spices from the kitchen and the tea, and something strident and cloying like the smell of rouge. And his skin—oh, that perfect skin—was softer than silk and comforting where it brushed against his, and Ciel closed his eyes and relaxed into the rocking motions of their bodies colliding—pressing, pulling, grinding. Sebastian's strong hand, raking along his chest as if memorizing every piece of him, and he hoped that the butler wouldn't accidentally pull a button off his suitcoat because he liked this one.

And afterwards, Ciel smoothed his clothes down as he strutted through the noisy halls, exchanging glances of secrecy and disdain with Sebastian as they parted ways in the vestibule; he, stomping off to the dining room while the butler crossed towards the kitchen, and he scolded himself ceaselessly for ever becoming so unprofessional, and vowed to never take part in such debauchery again.

Until the next time the need was so _good_, and he couldn't resist.

* * *

_What has become of our little boy blue, since he kissed them and put them there?_

* * *

It wasn't always like the nursemaids used to giggle about behind their hands when they'd thought he and Elizabeth were far enough away not to hear. _That Jane is such a dirty puzzle, a real cheap cunny! _the nice blonde one would titter, and the brunette would tuck loose curls behind unpierced ears and snort, _Chicken-breasted three-penny upright dabs it all day long, I'm sure. _And when the back-stabbing gossip was through, the nursemaids would try to occupy the children with something especially interesting before moving on, but Ciel had never fallen for it. He'd sit in the shade, picking the grass blade by blade, slouched against Sebastian's furry side while the dog snored in his afternoon nap, downwind of the nursemaids while they sat on their blanket on the other side of the tree and failed to notice how their voices carried.

_Did he really touch you there? Oh, yes, he did. I can't believe you! But you wish he'd made it into YOUR dicky, I can see it on your face— And his...his member? Well... Let me just say it twarn't no lobcock. Not too big, not too small—just perfect, felt so good, I can't even tell you, my face will burn right off in my blushing. Just try, explain it to me. Come on, now. How do you do it? Agh, God, you're such a nosy thing—just spread my legs and he put it in. Right-o. It was uncomfortable at first, stiff as a rod—but I just remembered Jane's advice and kept moving, and it really is mind-boggling, Elsie. Oh...OH! Did you hear about that Kelvin sod? He's got the French disease, I heard from Laurie. Do you know how you get rid of that? Playing back gammon, I think. With a CHILD— Oh, I heard that, too—!_

Sometimes Sebastian just fondled him, didn't ask for anything in return. Sometimes he took care of things with his mouth, dropping little kisses all over sensitive areas. Sometimes it was his fingers—inside and out, experienced and talented and mind-numbing. Every now and again, though, Sebastian glanced at him with a certain look of humility in his eyes, and Ciel would sigh and nod and let him yank off his drawers or flip up the hem of his nightshirt and plunder the intimate parts of his body with his own, and eventually, Ciel would smile, and eventually, he would like it, and eventually, he wouldn't want it to end, but eventually, it _would_ end, in the same way it always did—a big mess. A mess as sticky and debilitating as a spider web caught on one's fingers, and just as hard to see, too; tricky little threads leading to a tangled web inside his chest.

* * *

_There was a monster in my bed._

* * *

Sebastian taught him to dance, a diabolic waltz, and that ended with some stinging pride and a dark attitude. But Elizabeth's cheer when they stepped out onto the empty dance floor of an empty manor made up for it.

And later that night, he rang the bell connected to the butler's pantry, and when Sebastian opened his door, he was already sitting upright, smiling softly.

And Sebastian taught him another dance.

* * *

_I don't think you trust in my self-righteous suicide._

_I cry when angels deserve to die._

* * *

Ciel wasn't entirely fond of how, sometimes, people felt the need to point out the obvious. He didn't understand why it was so hard to just notice, analyze, and store in the back of the mind for future reference and use. The lack of such a skill caused so many awkward situations for people; wasn't the rest of society ever going to learn?

When he'd been younger, he'd had a million questions—_Why does that man look sad, dad? Why is his handkerchief red? Why does that letter have the Royal Seal on it? Doesn't that woman know her dress is too small? Why does Uncle Clause say Momma doesn't like some of your friends?—_and his father would shake his head and wag his finger and press the tip of it down against his nose, smiling. Aunt Frances would tell Elizabeth, _Little girls are to be seen and not heard_, and sometimes Ciel would be a bit dubious, wondering if his father would say that to him, too, but just as his blind trust assured him, his father was too kind for that—too clever for that. Instead, he reprimanded, _Don't ask, and don't tell. _

For a few years, Ciel had been too young to fully comprehend. He'd be tapped on the nose and instructed, _Don't ask, and don't tell_, and he'd blush and shrink away behind his father's leg and hope that the guests hadn't heard his inquiries because apparently, asking was wrong and so was telling.

When he was eight, the meaning hit him like an epiphany.

It was at a dinner party, where half the guests were waiting to meet with his father in the drawing room and the other half were there simply to appease public curiosity, and his mother was in the corner talking wine and silk with her girlfriends and his father had asked him to tag along through the crowd like he always did. Because _like father, like son_, and because one day he would be the head of the household, and Elizabeth would be in the corner talking curls and pearls with her girlfriends, and he'd be leading their eldest through the crowd, too.

He'd already eaten his bread pudding while the grown-ups toasted the night, and it was right before they ran into his Uncle Clause that Ciel had noticed it. And he'd clutched his father's pantleg and sidestepped behind him, and he'd opened his mouth, but did not speak, because—

_Daddy, why does the Baron stare like that? _

Don't ask, and don't tell. Take notice, but don't inquire. Analyze, consider, set neatly in the corner of the mind to remember and to utilize. His father was like that, Ciel realized; omniscient, like the time when he had been very young and he'd snuck a piece of cake between tea and dinner, and his dad had looked at him with his keen eyes and Ciel had looked back in the best innocence he could feign, and only later when he hadn't been hungry at dinner did his father bring up the crumbs he'd noticed on his collar earlier in the afternoon. His father never really asked questions, but he didn't need to, seemed to be superior to such petty things; there was a constant spark of recognition in his eyes while he talked to people, a critical intensity that was somehow warm and inviting at the same time, while he reeled people in to unravel in his mind, a kind-faced spider sitting amicably on its web with its dinner crawling up to its throne in unintentional sacrifice.

It was a tool, Ciel realized eventually, peering out past his father's pantleg at all the ladies dancing and the men toasting, and the Baron Kelvin, who just would not stop staring, and Tanaka directing the servants at the buffet. It was a skill his father was passing down to him, a polite piece of social mannerisms that he needed to learn if he was to be an attentive, intelligent gentleman, worthy of his lineage. If he was to be a proper man and honor the name given to him as his divine right, he needed to perfect this _don't ask, and don't tell_ thing. Because it was a tool. Because people would not expect he had the upper hand if he didn't ask, and people could not strike him where it hurt if he didn't tell, and those were the basics of life. Noticing, analyzing, understanding, manipulating. In surviving the world, those skills were necessary.

_Don't ask, and don't tell._

Of course, Ciel understood it completely now, sitting in the dining room of the manor. It was nearly an effortless thing, part of his wiring after years of practice and experience—having taken over his father's spot in the center of the spider's web—but he just couldn't understand why it was not common sense to others, as well; why it was so hard to simply keep the mouth shut, why it was necessary to even ask in the first place.

Which was why his entire body bristled and his shoulders twitched, and heat burst on his cheeks when Elizabeth cried:

"Ciel! What are those bruises from?"

Dishes and silverware chattered together where Sebastian removed them from the table on the other side of the dining room.

Ciel met Elizabeth's pinched stare with one of his own, brow knotted above the corner of his eye patch, lips parted as he searched for the right words to dispel her concerned curiosity. He licked his lips, and the stare between he and Elizabeth throbbed with desperate uncertainty. The clock ticked away in the silence, an obnoxious mockery.

Ciel's hand fluttered towards his neck; his mind went straight to the possibility of the _bruises_ Elizabeth spoke of actually being the spidery marks of broken blood vessels and other red spots, some he hadn't noticed in the mirror this morning, or that Sebastian hadn't informed him of. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. He fought the urge, first, to exchange bitter eye contact with Sebastian, because that would be far too obvious, even with Elizabeth's obliviousness—and it wasn't as though Sebastian would grace him with a returned glance, anyway. He was probably enjoying this incredible awkwardness, proud of himself, like the sadistic bastard he was.

Panic bloomed in the pit of his gut where his insides twisted and he clambered for his composure, because he didn't like being startled so abruptly that he was rendered speechless. He didn't _remember_ that sharp mouth suckling anywhere visible, anywhere he didn't allow, but sometimes he did lose track of what was happening because he was so distracted by other things—

At the thought of it, Ciel remembered that he was currently gawking at Elizabeth dumbly, so he uttered a light-hearted laugh to break the silence, shooing away his panic and reclaiming self-control as he propped his elbow on the table, palm to his neck, just in case the _bruises_ she spoke of were actually there, much to his dismay. Innocence fell across his face and he smiled. "What bruises?" he murmured, reaching for his tea.

Elizabeth's hand shot out and her little lady's fingers locked around his forearm just as he lifted his tea from the saucer. The china clinked together and, across the dining room, the wheels of the serving cart rattled as they began moving on the carpet. Ciel grunted, eyes widening; his tea sloshed against the china, but not high enough to spill over. Elizabeth's stare was intense where it remained on him, but he was too startled to meet it just yet. She was Frances Middleford's daughter; when she wanted to be, she could be austere.

"_These bruises_," his fiancée answered, and her voice was liquescent in the silence, clear and strident, but strained-her munificence struggling to come through the sternness she felt she needed in order to accomplish her current quest. A lace-covered finger pointed to his wrist, where, upon reaching for his tea, his sleeve had moved up not even an inch or so, but just enough in the end. Ciel blinked, skin prickling as he acknowledged the faint purple on the skin near his wristbone, pasty gray bruises where Sebastian had gripped him the night before, clutched his wrists where his hands had been clawing for something to grab onto, pinned him down while he'd lionized him and he'd squirmed and cried out in rapture beneath—

Ciel shifted in his chair, dismissed the recollections, cursed himself for wearing this suit today, and made a mental note to confront Sebastian about his carelessness, then promptly check the length of every sleeve of every suit. But, despite the burning of his face, he sat up straight again, left his tea where it was and pulled his arm from her hand—but Elizabeth was unyielding, fingers steadfast and the worry obvious in her eyes, and Ciel regarded her sharply from through his lashes, mouth open but the right words still difficult to find.

"Lizzy, it's nothing at all to make a fuss about, I just—" He licked his lips, drew in a breath, held his chin level although his hand quivered where he longed to jerk it from her clutch, shove away from the table. His skin crawled. Childish anxiety coiled in his stomach, nauseating. He didn't want to be touched all of a sudden, he just didn't want to feel her hand on him anymore, he wanted her to let go and leave him alone. But damn it, what in the world could _possibly_ explain finger-shaped bruises on his wrist in a way that would be believable to her? "—it was a complete accident, you see, I—"

"Excuse me..."

Ciel's shoulders wilted in almost immediate relief.

Elizabeth's lower lip protruded and her hand lingered, then drifted away from Ciel's wrist.

Sebastian smiled humbly where he'd ducked down between them, hands behind his back. "Pardon my interruption," he murmured again, "but the young master is just quite embarrassed about the origin of those marks. The other day, while in town, a child recognized him as the head of the Funtom company, and, with the intentions of leading him over to introduce to his parents, grabbed his wrist with such fervor that it left a bruise."

There was another short silence, tense and precarious, and Ciel met Elizabeth's eyes with what he hoped was an ascertaining expression on his face. Elizabeth was quiet for a moment, peering at him with the clouds in her eyes rolling with the movement of her thoughts, and after a moment, she clasped her hands together and pressed her knuckles to her lips, pretty brow knotting and modest smile soft.

"Ciel, why is that embarrassing? That's so _adorable_..." She faltered slightly, brow furrowing further. Ciel glanced at her, noting the look of disappointment on her face. Probably disappointed in him, he considered; she knew him too well for her own good, really. She tried to soften her expression, rephrasing, "Well, I mean, 'Noblesse Oblige', right?"

Ciel scoffed lightly, brows raising. He glanced to Sebastian; Sebastian returned the gesture, and his eyes were dark with indications of new debt and deviltry. Images and sensations flashed in Ciel's mind—the promise of obligation, black-tipped fingers, bed sheets on bare skin. But he was determined not to be struck dumb again, especially not by such an intentional, devious, vindictive, _childish _glance as Sebastian's. He shrugged, pulling his sleeve further down and folding his hands atop the table, hooking one leg over the other.

"Well, it's embarrassing that it bruised so easily," he countered. "It was just a small child, after all. ...Smaller than me. Like, hardly past five years old. Or so. Practically still a baby."

"You can't help that you have a weak nature," Elizabeth cooed, frowning earnestly.

Ciel huffed a breath as Sebastian passed behind him and continued on his way out of the room, wheeling the serving tray and dirty dishes out. "It's not _weak_, per se, Lizzy, I just... He was a strong kid, healthy and brutish for his size. I thought he was going to dislocate my arm with how hard he jerked on me."

Elizabeth laughed softly, and Ciel relaxed because she'd bought it. He peered at her, frowning absently at first, acknowledging yet again why _don't ask, and don't tell _was such a useful, effectual tool, and should remain his, and his only—and then he smiled in return, primly, lashes lowering on accomplished eyes. Outside the broad windows of the dining room, the skies were heavy with rain.

* * *

_Come to bed, don't make me sleep alone._

* * *

Beads of water plinked against the surface of the bath, rippled outwards towards the smooth white side of the tub. Ciel lifted his hand again, watching the drops of water trickle off his fingertips and wrist, hitting the surface below. _Plink, plink. _He slipped his hand back under, pulled it out another time—slowly. Watched the water drip. _Plink._ Maybe he should get a more extravagant bathtub. But no, silver or gold would not go well with the rest of the décor; and besides, he was quite fond of the porcelain and oak paneling of this one, and he didn't want to seem too pretentious in his high-standing. His uncle was the one with a taste for the particularly gaudy, and in excess.

The steam filled the bathroom, fogging the long mirror in the corner and the windows high above the floor, dusting the plaster and marble and glass. He sat with his feet firm against the bottom of the tub, the water like a tickling finger on his buttocks and thighs; he slouched, curled forward against his knees, the cool air caressing his spine where the steam swirled up along it. His hair stuck to the sides of his face, dripping down his nose and cheeks.

_drip._

Gloveless hands brushed past his cheeks from behind, pulling his hair out of his eyes and smoothing it down, peeling it out of his face and leaving it, damp, plastered to the top of his head and out of his face. Ciel dropped his hand back into the water and turned slightly, casting Sebastian a dark glance from over his shoulder, perfectly visible with his hair out of his eyes, slicked back and messy. Perfectly visible, lashes like charcoal shavings and eyelids delicate and pale, dark stare so pure in its blue from one eye and a flash of cloudy lilac from the other, and the little wrinkle, the adorable dimple, in the soft skin of his brow where his glare forfeited its animosity and became just another one of his grouchy temperaments.

Sleeves rolled up and fingers curled limply in the air, Sebastian rose his brows, waiting with elbows on the side of the tub and bar of soap on the stack of towels.

The silence stretched on, and the dripping continued—plinking this time down from the mouth of the faucet, pipes creaking beneath the floorboards. Their stare-down lasted a few moments, good, long moments, before Ciel licked his lips and rolled his shoulders and murmured over the gentle swish of water, "What?"

"Your hair." Sebastian motioned gently. "I need to wash it, young master."

More silence, and the dripping from the faucet.

Ciel dropped to his rear end and scooted backwards, water sloshing against the sides of the tub and privates bouncing idly beneath the water. He hunched forward, hands falling to his lap as Sebastian's soapy fingers tangled into his hair. The water created illusions; his hands were disfigured where they sat, wavering in the ripples. His head bobbed with the motion of Sebastian's hands, and the scent of buttermilk and honey bloomed from around his ears.

He wriggled lower, pressed his lips into a thin line and thrust beneath the surface, and the hands tangled into his hair again, raking through along his scalp. And when he slipped back up out of the water, sucking in a breath, clean hair pasted to his face again, the hands already had the wash cloth in them, scrubbing at his neck and behind his ears. His shoulders, down his arms. Beneath his arms. His sides. His back, his chest, his stomach, his hips. A gloveless, black-tipped thumb, twitching against his cock as if on purpose. Gliding along his thigh like he could tease.

"I'm not a toy," Ciel grunted, droplets of water spraying from his wet mouth.

Sebastian was silent for a moment, but when he did speak, he was in the shell of his ear, and Ciel's spine went rigid and his skin tingled, cold.

"I know," Sebastian husked. Ciel's eyes widened, his fingers plucking wet hair from his forehead and lashes, holding it out of his eyes. Sebastian's breath tickled the top of his ear and he drew his hands back up from where the wash cloth drifted along the boy's thin knee, knuckles following the curve of his legs, pausing with fingertips at the soft dip between hips and pelvis.

"Neither am I," the butler murmured, and Ciel opened his mouth to retort, but a wet wash cloth slapped against his face and began to scrub.

* * *

_And when the madness stops, you will be alone._

* * *

Sometimes the need was sick.

The night that his aunt died, he lay sore and lethargic in the warm blankets and sheets he'd been so neatly tucked into—cool, expensive cotton, goose-down comforter, perfectly fluffed pillows. There was a hot water bottle at his feet and a silver platter on the bedstand, eye patch coiled at its corner and rings sitting on the black fabric, a cup of hot milk and brandy steaming on the silver. And the need was hiding dormant in his chest.

He watched Sebastian stir in the brandy with idle eyes, sitting up in bed and fingers folded limply in his lap. Silver spoon clinking against the sides of the fine china, Ciel watched Sebastian add a good amount—then licked his lips and asked for some more. And he watched Sebastian consider this for just a split-second, perhaps debating whether or not to advise his master otherwise, and then he poured a bit more brandy into the milk and stirred it in.

Halfway through the cup of hot milk, the need exploded—flowered up and out into his nerves, buzzed there like anxiety and sickened his stomach, and somehow, the burgundy color of Sebastian's eyes did not make him think of all the red that had drenched the night thus far.

With the rain falling outside, the half-gone milk was neglected on the silver platter and the young master welcomed his butler into bed with him, wouldn't let him crawl closer until he took off his shoes, of course, and sat with his fingers threading in and out of each other, smiling as the demanded distractions played out, like a show at a public-house—kneeling before him on his own bed, first the waistcoat with its buckles and buttons jangling, and then the fine white shirt; beneath, the fading marks of the brutal wounds the red-haired thing had marred him with, healing rapidly but not completely gone yet, bright pink scars curiously unpuckered. Clean black trousers, a startling lack of drawers—and the last things to hit the bottom of the bed were a pair of long socks. And so the young master clapped his hands together gently—softly enough that there was no sound, more a mockery than a true reaction, but the smile growing on his face was enough to prove his mockery false, and the butler pressed a gloved fingertip to his own lips and smiled a coy smile.

_You're such an EARNEST boy, my aunt used to tease me._

_Are you an earnest boy?_

_No. Yes. Hey—that red-haired thing, he wants you. _

_...He does._

_But he can't have you. Do you know why? _

_I am yours._

_You're so good, Sebastian._

In the candlelight, the brandied milk grew cold and the places between Ciel's legs grew hot, and his skin crawled and his fingernails scraped the sheets, and his throat ached from the breaths he gasped and the cries he refused to let out, and the aftertaste of the milk was dry and bitter. Sebastian's smile shifted from humble to sinister to comfortable, gloves eventually discarded and long, thin, pallid fingertips slipping into warm places and curling about little pink ankles while his smile dusted little pink lips and little gray eyelids.

When the end assailed him and his body jerked, Sebastian was stiff and painful inside of him, and Ciel bit at his knuckles to keep in the noises, ultimately pleased but disappointed and worried about the way the climax was plummeting so sharply this time. And then Sebastian gave the glance—that pathetic little imploring glance, ruddy eyes shining sanguine in the light and looking big and childish, like a demented puppy's, or a playful cat's—and Ciel nodded where he'd flopped down against his strewn pillows, dragging clammy hands down a clammy face as the stiffness shifted inside him and Sebastian's knees moved, hips wriggling back into proper position. And with his hands draped across his face and his heels over his butler's shoulders, Ciel felt the despair already setting in, with each shock sent shuttling into his tailbone and the usually oh-so sensitive areas there. Not pleasurable anymore, not tonight. Sick, rotten, disgusting, abhorring, reminiscent and betraying, shameful, deceptive.

He started crying only after Sebastian asked him what was wrong, finished and lying next to him, stroking hair out of his eyes and tracing the curve of his brows with a black-tipped thumb. And he cried because Sebastian wouldn't understand, and he cried because he didn't understand, either, and he cried because he didn't want to cry.

"What is _wrong _with me?" he husked, chin dimpled and brow knotted and tears welling above his lashes. "I'm a _heartless_, _ruined_...monstrous child—"

"No, my lord," Sebastian whispered, drawing the sheets up further, free hand stretching for his clothes. "_Heartless_ and _soulless_ are two very different things."

He was too astonished by such a cruel statement in such affectionate tones to cry any more after that; the tears dried up almost immediately, and Ciel fell asleep quite aware of the blankness of his stare at the ceiling.

* * *

_Just how deep do you believe? Will you bite the hand that feeds? Will you chew until it bleeds?_

* * *

"Oh," Ciel murmured in surprise, blinking a few times. The good china chattered delicately as he set his cup of tea down, and his face slowly darkened as he took notice of the stains blooming in the upper corner of the paper he'd dropped to the top of the stack on his desk.

Sebastian fell still, white cloth draped over his forearm. He glanced over to the boy in the big Bocelli, brow knotting. "What is it, young master?"

Ciel lifted his right fingertips, scowl softening to a disapproving frown at the amount of sticky residue the glaze on the warm scone had left there. Licking his lips just in case there was some there, too—perhaps even some crumbs—he shoved his hand forth, held it up in front of the butler as he reached for his tea again with his free fingers.

Sebastian's lashes fluttered in confusion at first, before his mouth perked in his usual curious smile, and he caught the hovering hand by the wrist. His eyes flickered upwards and Ciel met them, spreading into his own smile behind the rim of his teacup, and Sebastian nodded in understanding and pressed the dirty fingertips to his lips, gingerly. Parted his mouth and drew them in, suckling the butter and icing off the tips of the thin little fingers. Nipping teeth, tongue sliding along tiny fingernails.

Ciel's free knuckles tightened on the fragile handle of his teacup, and his breath escaped his lips in a short, unintentional burst, just as the delight tingling at the base of his spine flowered elsewhere accidentally. He broadened into a smile on a quick sip of tea; his laughter filled the quiet office, tickled fingers wriggling in the hot, wet warmth of the butler's maw, and Sebastian's mouth curled into a contented smile around them.

* * *

_One devil knows another._

* * *

The bells rang.

Ciel's mouth dropped and he sucked in a shrill breath, entire body bristling. A cloth—rough, dark—a blindfold prevented him from opening his eyes all the way, and ropes burned his wrists through his gloves. For a split second, all his practiced reactions flitted away and the fears and feral impulses from childhood took over—a strangled cry arose in his throat, choked there, muted and wavering on the back of his breath, and then the shadows outside the blindfold became light, taunting ribbons of it at the edges of his vision, and shock rattled his frame like the acknowledgment had physically hit him.

Not bells.

People. Talking, whispering. And he knew the feeling on the air very well—secretive, dark, _sick_. And when the hands untied the blindfold across his brow and it fell to the grotesque pink folds on his lap, the sea of observers and auctioneers crowded into the room before him was not a surprise.

_Sebastian._

And Ciel stared between the bars at them as the auction began, feeling the way his eyes hardened over, and the fury and the adrenaline surged through his blood so that his knuckles shook where they were tied together. Because he'd gotten out of this before, he was _not supposed to be back here, that Druitt BASTARD—_

The candles went out.

Gasps, cries, screams—snapping limbs, crumbling bodies, thuds and splatters against the floor.

And in the darkness, Ciel smiled.

King's knight to e-five.

* * *

_My God, my tourniquet. Return to me, salvation._

* * *

Gloveless knuckles dusted across his cheek and Ciel peered up at the face hovering over his in the darkness, lashes lowered on dazed eyes—foggy, clouded, tired. His body buzzed with the leftover thrill of sex, and there was a part of him—in the depths of his ego, where the pride for his family's name was still burning fiercely—that felt kind of dirty, kind of rueful for these acts of utter depravity, but although he was Ciel Phantomhive, he was not Vincent, and in not being his father, he had every right to be himself.

Sebastian smiled, looking incredibly pretty in the moonlight. The celestial glow softened his face where it hit the milky skin, but where the bridge of his nose created a median, the shadowed half of his face was somewhat ominous. Ciel's hand moved up, fingertips brushing the perfect curve of Sebastian's jawline, and the same gloveless knuckles gently pressed the hand away.

"Please relax, my lord."

His fingertips dipped in the air where Sebastian had swatted them away, swerved down to the bare skin of Sebastian's chest. Traced his collarbone, the slender, sculpted slope of his shoulder. The gentle swell of his chest, idly trailing his middle finger up and down the smooth dip between flat pectorals.

Dazed blue and lavender followed his own fingertip, lips open and breath coming soft and slow. The moonlight fell in slants across him, too, where he lay cradled beneath his nearly-naked butler, the blankets drawn up over the young man's hips and falling to drape over his side before hitting the bed. Sebastian's hand dropped down to splay across his chest in turn, and Ciel's eyes shifted, catching on the black nails and the marred knuckles, the pentacle rotted into the skin. Maybe his nails were rotten, too. Dead.

Sebastian mimicked the motion, dragging his index finger up and down the middle of his breastbone, fingernail tickling his skin. Ciel sighed, a shiver zipping through him at every little scrape of Sebastian's nail, like an innocent sweetheart or a lover, pointless motions that were comforting and although meaningless, perfect—sweet nothings not whispered, but gestured. His thighs were aching, the space between his buttocks and tailbone throbbing. Tingling and sore, feeling rather empty now that Sebastian was done and he was curled beneath him, knees pressed to the unfastened waist of Sebastian's trousers and toes wriggling in the sheets. Sebastian's bare feet were just inches away and the rest of his clothing lay folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

The sheets moved with Sebastian's elbow, whispered against Ciel's nakedness and sent chills up from the places where the sensitivity was still fading. His knees twitched, and when he shifted towards the sturdy body, the warmth beside him, the soreness inside him ached sharply, and then dulled down again.

He pressed a coy little kiss to Sebastian's bare shoulder, felt the long, black-tipped fingers tangle into his hair, swirl against his scalp. He met Sebastian's eyes from over his upper arm, and a new chill assailed him at the look on the devil's face—something so utterly warm and comfortable, innocuous and good-willed, and if Ciel hadn't been catching his breath, he would have laughed at how startling this was, how much it ruined Sebastian's well-crafted reputation.

Instead, he relaxed as he had been told, slumped down against the pillow and Sebastian's other arm, and smiled at him from below his lashes, hair falling into his eyes.

And Sebastian—as not-Sebastian as he seemed right now, in the moonlight, soft and peaceful and doting—leaned down, cupped his master's cheek in his palm and kissed the corner of his mouth.

It took the butler a long while to get fully dressed again, most of which was spent slumped on the edge of the mattress with his shirt in his hands and his trousers still unfastened, poker-faced in the moonlight with strands of hair falling loose from behind his ear, watching the boy he'd carefully redressed and how he was somehow already tangling the blankets he'd smoothed to his chin.

* * *

_I can't resist, take all you want from me._

* * *

It was another bright and comforting, early-spring day when Mrs. Rodkin couldn't make it for French tutoring, and the afternoon tea was a sweet black brew. Spicy enough to question the influence of those Indians he'd finally sent off on an impossibly possible scavenger hunt in the market. Ciel had stressed all night with Sebastian over just what kind of shopping list would be too easy for them to obtain quickly; after all, Agni promised completion of anything too difficult for the prince, so to keep them away for a long time, they had to come up with something simple enough that Soma would be adamant about accomplishing himself, in his newfound mission to dispose of any selfish action whatsoever.

_Avez-vous besoin de mon aide?_

_Embrasses moi... S'il vous plaît._

_...Oui, monseigneur._

The main lesson-book sat neglected on the corner of the desk, flimsy workbook draped over the arm of his chair. The study—_his_ study, on the second floor, had no gargoyles on the mantle like in his father's study (which was now his, too, either way), but instead had world maps and old portraits on the walls, and a little globe in the corner, a divan and a number of bookcases, a shelf for each lesson and more for his old collections of books. The walls were sky-blue, the carpet navy, and the curtains were still the same soft white they'd been when he was young.

Some days, the room upset him in all its nostalgia and childhood brightness—the table with the ship in a bottle, or the cabinet in the back corner where old board games sat gathering dust. Some days, he moved his lessons to his office. But today, he wasn't really paying enough attention to his surroundings to feel the plaintive weight of the lingering memories.

_I'm sure you're better than Mrs. Rodkin, with your broad...capabilities. Why don't YOU teach me the French tongue today?_

The curtains fluttered and Sebastian's hand slipped over, fingertips gingerly cupping the line of Ciel's jaw—and Ciel straightened up, stretching his back, hands moving from where they fisted the arms of his chair to instead press to Sebastian's waist, thin fingers splayed where they touched the fine cotton twill and thin, woven wool. And the room was quiet as it had been for the last five minutes, quiet except for the sounds of kissing—tentative at first, the gentle caress of lips upon lips, and then more involved, filling the silence with the wet, pliant smack of mouths and slithering tongues, grazing teeth, and quivering lower lips. And breaths in between, because the kisses were slow and amorous, sensual, patient—and the exploring tongues took turns between leaders with bobbing heads.

His tea would soon get cold, he reminded himself, but their mouths broke apart not once in all of nine minutes, and when Ciel fell back against the seatback of his chair, lashes lowered on heated eyes and cheeks flushed, shoulders rolling with gentle breaths, sensations blooming up from other regions of his body, his mouth was raw and tingling and Sebastian thumbed his chin dry, smiling humbly.

Ciel finished his tea with his collar unfastened and Sebastian's nose buried in the nape of his neck, dropping languid kisses up and down the stretch of skin between his earlobe and the slope between shoulder and neck. Empty cup set on the desk near the abandoned lesson-book, little fingers tangled into layered strands of dark brown hair, and Ciel turned to press his nose into Sebastian's temple, just next to his ear and above his cheek. Took in his scent, the way he felt. Sebastian's tongue slid away from his neck and his hands gripped the arms of the chair, waiting for his master's next words—waiting, with ruddy eyes sharp in attentiveness.

"...Merci," Ciel finally murmured, breathed out against Sebastian's skin. Sebastian was silent, motionless, as the boy's fingers tightened against his skull. Then he lifted a hand, pressed it to the knuckles shaking in his hair, gently pulled the hands away and kissed the tips of the fingers.

"No," he whispered, meeting Ciel's eyes. "_Merci._"

* * *

_I can't hold on to me, wonder what's wrong with me?_

* * *

The first bath he took after leaving that filthy place and its massacred evils was steaming and fresh, and he almost cried out in relief when he dipped his toes into the water and they tingled.

But once he was sitting, it was miserable, because the hot water stung the places between his legs where inhuman humans had ravaged, and he almost cried out in pain because the hot water throbbed and pulsed between his buttocks and along every scratch and scrape on his knuckles or his knees.

And Sebastian cleaned the dirt and dried blood off, checked him for disease, and washed his hair with wonderful fingers, and when his muscles were numbed by the water and his fingertips wrinkled, the stinging ache was still there but Ciel acknowledged that hating that pain was childish, because that was the pain of healing.

* * *

_And he'll beat you, beat you, beat you,_

_And he'll beat you all to pap._

_And he'll eat you, eat you, eat you,_

_Every morsel—_

_snap snap snap._

**end of part one.**


	2. part deux: hinc illae lacrimae

_little lamb, stained in red._

_**Disclaimers**_**: I do not own Kuroshitsuji; nor do I own any of the quotes/lyrics used between scenes.**

_**Rating/Warning**_**: M for mature themes—direct references to sexual abuse, child abuse, occult and cult activity, and lots of otherwise "normal" sex; brief reference to opium use somewhere along the way, so small you might even miss it; graphic/dark content.**

_**A/N**_**: Part two.**

* * *

_And the last enemy to be destroyed is death._

_O death, where is your victory?_

_O death, where is your sting?_

* * *

**part deux.**

_**hinc illae lacrimae.**_

* * *

The bells would ring.

Ring, and ring, and ring, not in a melody but not without a pattern—ethereal tintinnabulation, echoing off stone and metal and cold flesh. _Ting-ting, ting-ting. Ting-ting, ting-ting._ It pierced through the veils of any slumber or distant thoughts, stirring the soul and prickling the skin and moving the dams to let tears spring into little eyes.

_Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb—_

And when he sang, in his velvet mask with braids of golden rope and dangling beads of every color, his grin was wide and his whiskers danced above his teeth. His footsteps were sharp on the stone as he dipped and strode his way past the cells, singing and ringing his bells and waking all the children up.

At first, Ciel had been one of the few children that reached between the bars and begged and pleaded and sobbed to be let out, and he'd been the loudest and the most vehement and the one that snivelled the harshest. He was the last one to give up these attempts, after what felt like eternities of fingerfuls of dirt and grit and blood, and his clothes were crusty with snot and yucky stuff. Polly gave up first, and then Richard, and then Teddy, and Anna had given him a run for his money but in the end, his voice had been the last hoarse wail to keep crying, after all the others had shut up and crawled into a grimy corner to stare.

_Mary had a little lamb, whose fleece was white as snow._

The bells would ring, and after a while, Ciel wouldn't cry. Mostly because he'd lost his voice, but he wouldn't cry. He'd just shiver and pry himself up off the floor of the cage and stand waiting on quivering knees. They'd all learned quickly that the time to cry was not when the bells rang, but when the faces hovered over them and the sex began, because that was when _they_ wanted them to; they didn't care otherwise. Polly had wanted to hold his hand once, because she'd been scared, but he had refused. He didn't know her, and her hand was dirty, and she had a strange smell about her.

They'd stand in a line on the cold stone floor, shackles rattling and clothes rustling as the girls with the feathers and Goldilocks curls and matching masks tipped their chins up and smoothed their hair and whispered to them all to smile big for their daddies, now. And from behind the curtains would file their daddies, and sometimes their mommies—but those were horrible things to call them, because what they _really _were were monsters with pretty masks and pocketbooks full of money and a taste for something a little more _divine_ than what they could find at any old public-house.

At first, they'd had to hold his wrists and forcibly undress him. But, Ciel noticed, that was normal with every one of them—when one of them was new, they often kicked and screamed just like he had. And, just like he had, if they accidentally kicked one of the masked, feathered girls, or maybe even the man with his gray whiskers and toothy grin, then it was a slap across the face and back into the cage and no dinner. It had only taken him four or five times to realize that fighting it was not going to help—especially after watching a little blond boy named Percibul bite one of the girls and get beaten for it—whips and holly branches and wires—and he didn't want that to happen to him.

Doff the pants and lift the skirts, and smile and bat the lashes while standing in the center of attention. And _Twenty-five. _And _Thirty._ And _For the virgin, sixty-two._ And when nobody challenged that, it was back into line to redress by yourself. And later that night, some of the children were pulled from their dirty corners and never came back to the cages, and Ciel wondered where they went, and sometimes he couldn't sleep because he was afraid of the shadows that the bellowing mantras manipulated, lying awake watching, waiting for other monsters to descend.

Then there were other mommies and daddies, who came in little groups now and again, that liked to peek at them from between the bars and then rummage in their purses—and sometimes they practiced what they did for this with the men in cloaks, and sometimes they were just plucked from their corner of the cell without warning while the whiskered man counted out the pounds and they were led away into the rooms behind the velvet curtains, placed on knee before a mommy or a daddy to peer up and blink and beg for mercy with the eyes before they were lionized.

At one point, Ciel realized he was the last one left in his cell.

He hadn't understood that.

After the initial rebellion that had become burning hesitance, he'd been a good boy. He'd shut up about wanting baths and wanting hot food and wanting the men to stop chanting and wanting to go home, because he wasn't stupid. It was clear that if one of the mommies and daddies wanted him, he'd get all of those things. If he smiled brightly enough and looked as happy as he could when he unbuttoned his tattered trousers, they'd buy him and take him to their home where he'd be able to take a bath and eat good food and wear clean clothes and be their obedient son—or, if not, perhaps one of the men in the cloaks and masks would like him enough to let him go when they were done with him.

So he'd tried, he'd really tried, and he'd thought that he was good at what he did because the man with the gray whiskers and jolly eyes behind his gold and beaded mask always petted his hair and thumbed his nose while he watched him wipe his face with his dirty sleeve, and he'd tell him, _You're such a good little lamb._

_From a nobleman's family. Wealthy. Good genetics. Pretty—very handsome. Listens to directions, but cries big fat crocodile tears and has such a pleasant way of protesting. Swallows. Likes games. Good, strong personality. Soft skin. Smart tongue. Straight teeth. Good-working hands. Doesn't complain, but definitely isn't quiet. Supple rump. Sweet child, he really is. It's a shame, isn't it? Everybody wants him. Casual visits and auctions, EVERYBODY wants him. ...Except he's THE ONE._

And he'd smile extra big because _everybody_ wanted him and only the best could take him, because apparently, he was _the one_.

_Everybody_ wanted him, but he was the last one left in his cell. He was positive—confident—_incredibly_ sure that he was better at everything than everyone else, slouched and sprawled in the other pockets of filth, because the man with the gray whiskers never talked about others like he did about him, and the mommies and daddies never _ooh_ed and _ahh_ed over others like they did over him, and the casual visitors never lingered and peeked through the bars at others as long as they did at him.

But nobody took him home.

Not until one long night later, when the men in the cloaks and masks came, carried him off and had their way with him, one after the other while he wondered if he was still sleeping or not. And after that they lit the candles, and one of them gave him a big kiss on the forehead as he wondered if all that blood was from the sex, and then the chanting started again and Ciel clapped his hands over his ears. And he hummed to himself, his own little secret song.

_Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. _

When the light gleamed off the edge of the knife held over him and his voice gave out from all his screaming opposition and his heels and his elbows and his wrists bled from where he was kicking and squirming against the altar, Ciel realized why he'd never been picked. He was _the one_, after all.

_Mary had a little lamb, whose fleece was_

_REDREDRED_

* * *

_I will run you through with the dagger you sharpened on my body and soul, before you slit me in two and devoured me whole. _

_I want my innocence back._

* * *

India ink, all over his new suit. Thick black splotches staining the Donegal tweed, splattered across the suitcoat and blooming about his thighs and the hem of his shorts, a spot here and there on his white shirt where it had bled through. His suitcoat sat in a pile on the floor, inky side off of the carpet, and sometimes Ciel wondered if Sebastian intentionally let his clothes get dirty just so that he could clean him up.

His left garter fell to the carpet, and Sebastian slowly pulled his sock off, toe of it pinched between thumb and forefinger as he peeled it from his ankle. Ciel peered down his nose at him, lashes lowered on a dark eye, demure in such a decorous way—naturally, of course. He shifted where he sat on the edge of the bed, knuckles white in his grip on the ridge of the mattress; Sebastian's eyes flickered up to meet his, on knee before him, and with his heel cupped in one hand, the butler dropped his sock off to the side and ran his thumb up the little slope of his bare instep.

"Don't get distracted, now," Ciel husked, and his brow fluttered above his eyes, a little twitch of the expression, a tiny shift towards smug because he was well aware of the butler's insidious inclinations.

"Never," Sebastian murmured, and Ciel's fingers tightened on the edge of the bed, dug into the bedding as Sebastian's gloved palm brushed back down the top of his foot, over the thin bones and juts, thumb stroking the tendons of his instep. Perhaps searching for a ticklish spot, but he didn't think Sebastian was ridiculous enough for that sort of thing, anyway—

The silence in the master bedroom was broken by a gentle gasp as warm, dry lips pressed to the tip of a big toe, and Ciel's knuckles fisted in the blankets and he went rigid as a chill zipped up, through his body, buzzing along his nerves. Blinking, he regarded Sebastian with a look of stark innocence that quickly became that of dubious amusement; he chuckled, face twisting into a soft simper.

"Sebastian, come on, now. We don't have time for this foolishness today."

"My apologies, young master."

Another kiss, this time to the next toe. Dry, hot, velvet-soft where the inside of Sebastian's mouth teased—almost present, but his pursed lips not quite open enough. The whisper of coattails on the carpet as Sebastian shifted, and another kiss—to the middle toe, and then the next, and finally the smallest one, and then a papery little kiss to the top of Ciel's white foot, and the blankets rustled as Ciel lifted his foot away. From behind his knee, foot flexed and toes splayed out gently in the air, he peered down his leg at Sebastian and cut, "Don't mock me."

Sebastian peered up at him, lashes lowered on ruddy, knowing eyes. And as Ciel tried to analyze his smile and appear nonchalant at the same time, Sebastian thought to himself about his master's fragile pride—about how, as long as he had control, he would not admit to himself the serious depths of the acts he committed as someone of his stature—about, oh, the dangerous, dangerous hypocrisies of mankind, because as long as he was lying to himself about why he did these things, about in what position of control he was in, he would never admit to himself the truth of the matter—the truth in how his sumptuous thighs and buttocks quivered while he rode his contracted butler hard enough that it was difficult to believe it was the same elegant, savvy nobleman he emulated so easily throughout the day—the truth in how his tongue worked behind his contracted butler's teeth, in how his eyes were filled with emotions too strong for his childish egotism to allow outside of those moments of tacit air between them. Such swelling self-confidence, and such blinding denial.

"Never," Sebastian whispered again, and jerked at the sock on Ciel's other ankle so hard that it knocked the boy off balance, and Ciel toppled backwards with his bare foot in the air, hit the blankets with a soft _fwump_ and peered up at the ceiling with a gentle sigh of factitious disdain, as a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

* * *

_He licked his lips and said, "You look good enough to eat."_

* * *

The day in late autumn when his Uncle Clause came to visit, Sebastian tupped him in his office, in the big lavender Bocelli chair. Doors locked, he actually put his servant butt in the cushions of it and had his master on his lap, and without even fully removing a single article of clothing, he managed to bring him to a neat—but ecstatic—end.

_Did you need something?_

_I'm hungry. I want something sweet. ...Like parfait._

_I can't do that, young master. If you eat that, you won't have room for dinner. _

_It's fine, make some. _

_No._

_Well, I want SOMETHING._

Strangely enough, it put Ciel in an exceptionally good mood for the rest of the day.

He was reading a book on economics when his uncle arrived.

* * *

_Daddy, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, yeah._

_Beautiful, dirty, rich._

* * *

They all burned.

They burned like his soul had that day, years ago. And just like that day, years ago, he walked out alive, and he was happy.

He threw up when they returned home from the Baron's nest of evil, which they'd left engulfed in raging hellfire.

He pushed Sebastian out of his room and locked the doors as he closed them, and he sat in the Vienna near the window with his feet up, peering out into the darkness. When he ignored the fact that he couldn't see the rubble and the damage on the other side of the mansion, everything about the manor looked so peaceful, even in the night, which was something he'd never quite understood. In the face of what his home was really about—darkness, never ending darkness—it still looked placid and comfortable, not eerie in the least. Not frightening, not ominous. But perhaps that was just because it was _his_ home, hidden away in the mist and the trees.

His hand twitched for a cup of tea that wasn't there, and after realizing this, Ciel folded his hands in his lap and just relaxed into the chair, lashes lowering on eyes travelling far away, although the distance was only visible in one.

Filthy creatures, these humans.

Abhorrent. Wretched. Pathetic. Amoral. Disturbed. Lying, rotten brats. There was no God if He allowed such vile things to live and pillage other people's lives and get away with it.

January 14 was the day that he met Sebastian, and upon the reaction that he resembled his father from some angles, he'd reached for him and never thought twice. Grasped the spider-web thread and pulled himself from the depths of hell—or maybe just a void, a waiting-room of sorts, a desolate pocket of comfortable nothingness, because maybe he'd been headed to heaven, anyway—and pressed his hands to the face of that young thing that looked like his dad, and as the shards of icy-hot pain sank into his eye and the blood trickled down his cheek like tears of a saint, there was a sudden stirring sensation of somebody digging around inside of him. In his chest, in the depths of it, in the place in the middle where all the strong emotions of his life had ever throbbed. And it felt like something was wrapping itself around that place, feeling around in his psyche, reliving every powerful feeling that had ever been birthed there.

And Sebastian held him in one arm and killed them all, and Ciel watched from the crook of his elbow, hands folded and resting on the nape of his guardian's neck.

The first few months, the memories were still fresh and bitter, and even though there was unconditional trust because this young man was his savior, that trust was not the kind that made him believe he wasn't a conniving thing. And his stares were sad and sharp and grave, but Sebastian didn't seem to take it personally.

Three years ago, all he did was hold him. That did not last for long.

The first time he'd felt _the need_, it was impulsive and sudden and _strong_, but felt as normal as if he'd been feeling it forever. Natural, like he knew what to do, like it was something perfectly fine to ask for, thin little fingers curling in the lapels of a tailcoat and teeth gritted in his butler's face, and although Sebastian laughed at him when he asked and that irritated him, the first time _the need_ had been appeased, he'd wondered why he'd ever hated the process before.

It was one o'clock in the morning when Ciel staggered off the Vienna and unlocked his doors, wandered down and found Sebastian in the kitchen preparing for the next day's meals.

"Do you want something, young sir?" Sebastian asked, sleeves rolled up and hands dirtied with flour.

"I want you very badly, but it makes me sick right now," Ciel husked in return, leaning against the countertop.

"Yes," Sebastian murmured, and their eyes met for a long moment of silent words.

Only after Sebastian had tucked him into bed and blown out the candles did Ciel remember that the butler was the only one with the key to his room and the knowledge where it was kept, and he could have unlocked the doors at any time.

* * *

_The devil sleeps in my pocket: I have no cross to drive him from it._

* * *

Sebastian did not prefer kissing.

Ciel liked it, the touch of mouth against mouth and the tingling warmth of interlocked lips, because it was a connection and that was important. Made him feel that he and Sebastian were equals, that he was not just a child or a plaything for this devil in disguise, and _he_, personally, preferred feeling equal—feeling powerful—to feeling derogated by lack of kissing.

Sebastian liked to smile and exchange sultry eyes and let Ciel chase his lips around while he chuckled like an evil little boy, and Ciel hated it because it made him blush. But after a small amount of his demurring, Sebastian usually conceded—kissing and nibbling and dusting tongue along his lower lip instead of other extremities, and Ciel would smile, and fully relax.

* * *

_Loving me is like chewing on pearls._

* * *

"Nngh—Sebastian—"

The season was in full swing, London crawling with a more tightly-packed and reckless catalog of virtues and vice. Foreigners and countryfolk, the elite and the modest—commotion and mishaps that put daily London to shame. Ladybirds, cash carriers, toolers and palmers and the snazzy-looking mobsmen, a haven for the likes of them on the cobbled streets; nannies and children running from one event to the next; omnibuses, carriages, traffic; single men swaggering and free ladies giggling; lords and gentlemen with brazen courtesans and dress-lodgers, or rigid-backed wives—but everyone with the same look of cheer on their faces, as if the season was absolutely all they lived for, a time to be alive and come together no matter the secrets or guilt. Vain, disgusting people. Silk and parasols and the dwindling mutton-chops, and nobody was anything but fake to each other, even when summer and the season brought forth a kind of childhood innocence in everyone's eyes.

By day, the streets were crowded with the likes while the thoroughbred and gentry played stylish games of croquet or rode around country estates; by night, the more shady and sordid faces of London emerged, and amongst them the elite who had played croquet and eaten cucumber sandwiches now travelled to and fro from their many pockets of privilege there. Dinner parties and "business meetings", or a show at Her Majesty's. And they were like children given too much freedom, greedy children with the assertion that they are responsible enough but, once given the opportunities and the means, transform everything into selfish games.

And reasons such as those were why Ciel did not like to participate in the season. Shallow, painfully obvious, childish people, and he didn't like to go to dinner parties because nobody took him seriously enough unless he hosted the event, and he didn't like to tail along with Lau to his business meetings because the smoke from the cigars and the cloves made his eyes sting and his chest tight, and the men and women on the divans with their eyes in the backs of their heads, dreaming opium dreams, simply aggravated him.

But Lizzy wanted him to play croquet with her, in the grass of their great-uncle's country home, just a short ride out of town. And she wanted him to go to the shore with her at least once, to dip their toes in the water like they used to. And she wanted him to attend a dinner party for only the most fashionable and privileged young ladies of London, because she wanted him to be her date (and therefore ignite jealousy in all the other girls' hearts, except that she hadn't really said that, Ciel just assumed she was too munificent to admit it). And then Sebastian had made the comment—in front of both Lizzy and his Aunt Frances—that the earl could use a week or two off, away from the isolated manor. That socializing, especially with such company as the Middlefords, was ideal at the moment and if he should be so bold as to make the suggestion, he believed it was a good idea.

Ciel had smacked him a few good times, in his bedroom with the doors closed, traveling cases out and open on the bed and being filled with comfortable exaction by the butler, and Sebastian had glanced at him and added, _You might take advantage of the time off and socialize on your own accord, don't you think? _And Ciel had huffed a breath and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and insisted that No, he did not think, he was not going to partake in the season because he didn't like it, there were too many people, there was too much going on, and he was going to get a headache—

And, of course, his protests had been futile, because Sebastian was right. In the underbelly of London, although its matters were mundane compared to that with which his family dealt, there could always be a clue or two that he might find useful, and it was never a bad idea to refamiliarize himself with the labyrinths of which he wandered for the Queen.

"Young master, if you'd be cooperative for just a _moment_ of your life—"

So he damned the season, and he damned the people—and he damned Lizzy for making him go to the dinner party full of simpering young girls and their puffed-up young dates—and he damned Sebastian, for being right.

"Sebastian, _please—_"

And he damned the summer, for being so disgustingly, blasted _hot_.

The curtains in the office of his townhouse fluttered not from a breeze, but from the motion of the windows finally being swung open and fastened, and as Ciel turned around to peek over his shoulder at them, the glass of lemonade landed with a sharp _thud_ at the corner of his desk, ice tinkling within it. He turned around again, slowly, staring darkly up at the butler as he reached for the cold drink and took a thoughtful sip.

"It took you long enough."

"I'm sorry, young master. It was one demand after another—"

"I thought you could do anything."

Sebastian bristled and his face soured, and he looked so very human that it was perfect. Ciel had to withhold a smile from his face; he took the lemon from his drink and bit into it, face puckering at the bitterness. There. No smile. He regarded the butler through his lashes, idly stirring his drink with the little spoon as he sucked on the lemon.

"...That I can, young sir," Sebastian edged out, and although his mouth twitched where it wanted to become a sneer, Ciel could see in his eyes that the butler was quite aware of his stance. "It was just that—it's very hot, and sometimes your attitudes can become quite...tetchy when you're uncomfortable."

"All I asked for you to do was open the windows in the house to circulate air, get me a cool drink, and start lunch, Sebastian. Don't let your frustration with me cause you to err."

Their eyes met over the desk, and Ciel licked the last of lemon off his lips, raising his brows. Sebastian peered back, taciturn, although clouds of thought swirled in his eyes. He'd doffed his tailcoat earlier; his sleeves were rolled up and fastened, and if Ciel had been in a _particularly_ sour mood, he would have reprimanded him for unbuttoning his collar like that. But, it was indeed very hot, and an angry servant was a bad servant, so why mistreat him? Besides, it was rather appealing—

"I think you need to relieve some of your stress," Sebastian murmured then, softly, and the sudden change of his disposition—or his tone of voice, at the very least, captured Ciel's attention. He almost didn't hear his words over the buzz of the streets down below, drifting up and in through the open window; he frowned, setting the lemon rind down near his drink and leaning back in his chair, lacing his fingers absently in his lap. Where he stood next to the winged chair, Sebastian followed him down into the seatback cushions, smiling faintly where his face hovered above. That purr and that smile—suspicious and so familiar.

"I'm not stressed. I'm just hot and it's tiring." Ciel's frown softened and if he hadn't been mentally preparing himself for whatever Sebastian had up his sleeve, he would have grasped that he was pouting. "...Perhaps you can get me something sweet to eat to replenish some of my energy, so I can make it until lunch."

"The dinner party with Lady Elizabeth will go fine tonight. It shouldn't stretch on too late; I can look for something more entertaining for you to do afterwards, if that's what you wish. Perhaps the theatre."

Damn. He was getting too good at sidestepping snacks.

"I'm not worried about that. It's—"

"If the young master would just hush for a moment, and allow me to relieve his stress—shall I rub your shoulders? Maybe a cold bath will help."

Ciel snorted, a disdainful scoff in the back of his throat. Such gall. Sebastian's fingers moved, and Ciel closed his eyes. There went a button. And another. Third, fourth, fifth, sixth. And the sensation of his suitcoat being peeled from his chest and shoulders was kind of alluring, and the feel of Sebastian's hands even though he couldn't see him was a little soothing, and Ciel took a deep breath, relaxed into the fingers rubbing gentle circles along his neck and shoulders. He leaned forward, moved his drink and folded his arms atop his desk, rested his head and let Sebastian's hands massage the muscles always so tense and knotted up along his shoulders and spine.

Sebastian pulled his suitcoat from his elbows, and with nothing between the air and his skin but the thin cotton of his shirt, it was like a blanket of bliss. His skin tingled with cooler air and he sighed softly, didn't quite register the sound of ice tinkling or droplets of water falling until the cold touched the back of his neck and he gasped, head shooting up off the desk.

"Sebastian—"

"Shh. You're overheated. Please relax, young master."

A gloved hand touched the back of his head and gingerly laid it back to his forearms, and Ciel's ankles hooked where his toes pressed to the floor. In his arms, he frowned; the look on Sebastian's face had rendered him slightly dumb for a moment, and the skin near his ears tingled where a new heat wanted to pool across his already hot cheeks. But the ice Sebastian had pressed to the back of his neck was, while melting quickly, undeniably nice, and water dribbled away from it, trickled down the side of his neck and behind his ear, down to his chin.

Ciel pushed backwards, flopped into the seatback of his chair and peered at Sebastian through his lashes, hands wringing in his lap. "How thoughtful of you," he whispered, and Sebastian pulled another piece of ice from the drink, moved between his young master and the desk and smiled a perfect smile, reached forth and pressed the ice to the boy's lips.

Ciel's back stiffened and his fingers twitched, and shivers coursed through his limbs for a moment before he tipped his head back and opened his mouth, allowing Sebastian to trace the curve of his lips with the melting ice. Water, arcing down his chin. Whatever, it wasn't as if anyone was there to judge his actions. The feel of the ice, and the gently guiding fingertips. It actually did feel rather refreshing, and somehow it was placating his mood. Sebastian's eyes, heated and focused, and his sultry smile—and Ciel relaxed again, fully, heart fluttering, amenable and content. Sometimes Sebastian's games were worth playing.

The ice was gone. Sebastian reached for another. Traced Ciel's lower lip with it, his tongue—down and along his collarbone. Let the ice slip from his fingers and fall into his collar, further into his shirt, and it skidded down one side of his chest, hit his nipple and sent sparks of reaction exploding through his nerves as it faded away into a droplet of water near his belly button. Ciel gasped, recoiled against the arm of the chair. He searched out Sebastian's eyes, startled and embarrassed, but Sebastian only smiled back, cat-eyed. Not a butler smile, not a gentleman's smile, not a devilish smile—just Sebastian. And he chuckled kindly and said:

"Well, the young master has decided to shut himself up in the house until Lady Elizabeth's dinner party, after all, and there's quite a lot of free time until it begins. Are you rather relaxed now, young master? Have I helped fix your rotten mood? Or are you in need of more relief? Shall I go fetch some Rowlandson? Or perhaps you've a different preference of warm literature—"

"_S-Sebastian—_! That's enough!"

Another chuckle. "Yes, my lord."

* * *

_I wish that you could show me love._

* * *

Prince Soma and Agni did not know.

During the Anglo-Indian case, when the race for the perfect curry was staggering along—_Oh, by the way, _he'd said, _for today's dessert, I'd like to have Gateau chocolate. Bring it to me later._ And Sebastian had licked melted chocolate off his fingertips for him while he swung his legs, toes flexed to keep his slippers on his feet. And he'd gotten his chocolate, and he'd gotten his butler, and he'd gotten him straddled to his bed with slippers on the floor and bare toes curled in the sheets, and he'd laughed and he'd grinned and he'd held his shoulders high with import, and all the while those damned nosy Indians hadn't the slightest suspicion that their indebted host was just across the second floor, caught beneath the butler and caught up in his ruddy, ruddy eyes, breathing deep sighs of pleasure and twirling his fingers through dark brown hair as the butler told him witty quips and stories.

Everyone had their secrets and vices, their parties and pleasures. In their society, it was only natural. His aunt had had her share of mistresses and gentlemen; Lau had his business; his uncle had more ladies sparkling in his eye than anyone; his business partners had more secrets than should really be acceptable. As a nobleman, he had a right to his private affairs, just as the rest of London did, high and low—and perhaps it was easier for him, given the grace of his name. Besides, in a world as iniquitous and implicit as the one around him, through heritage and other connections, the idea of being caught and issued hard labor wasn't a threat so much as it was a grand, illustrious joke.

_You're such an EARNEST boy, my nephew. _

_As earnest as you, Madame. _

But nobody knew about them—or at least didn't acknowledge the idea outright. It was _sub rosa_, the truth beneath the rose.

And that was both shameful and exciting.

* * *

_And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put the prince back together again._

* * *

"Sebastian, I...have a problem."

"What would that be, young master? Is your tea not hot enough? Is the brandy too prominent? I can make you another cup, if you'd like, but I'm not sure you should push yourself to work any later on this case. You're already working in bed by this hour—"

Ciel held a hand up, lips pressed in a thin line, but he did not grace the butler with eye contact. Instead, he peered at the packet of information he held in his other hand, although the words didn't process—just danced across the pages, scribbles like words of a lost language. Blankets drawn up to his waist and pillows fluffed behind his back, the coke in the fireplace was glowing and the hands on the clock were at a quarter to eleven.

"No, nothing like that," he mumbled, tossing the papers to the side and rubbing at his eyes. The skin beneath them was tender, his eyes tired from the meticulous reading—his eye patch sat on the bedstand, and with his left eye trying to compensate, it was giving him a headache.

"Then what is it, young master?" On top of things, as always, Sebastian moved across the bed and gathered the papers and booklets that had been cast aside, straightening them up and setting them on the bedstand to pick up on his way out. He pulled the blankets up further; Ciel waited until they were pressed against his chest to shift backwards, draping an arm over his temple and letting out a soft sigh.

A gentle sigh extinguished the candles. In the darkness, Sebastian moved back towards the bedside, and Ciel drew in a trembling breath.

"Whatever it is, I'll fix it for you," Sebastian whispered, dropping to knee and lacing his fingers on the bedding. Ciel wriggled—rolled halfway away, the visible part of his face twisting into a tight frown. Silence passed, just a few moments, and then he rolled back, dropping his hand from his face and regarding Sebastian with distress sparking through his eyes, brow pinched. The butler noted absently that if his master knew how his face still gave off the air of childhood when he was in pain, he would never again allow himself the little expressive freedom he'd worked so hard to accept.

"Say a prayer," Ciel whispered, mouth barely moving on the words. And in a moment of rarity, Sebastian looked purely taken aback—not just startled, not perplexed, but honestly shocked. He blinked a few times, gawking briefly, before he licked his lips and held out his hands in failure.

"I'm afraid I'm not the right person to ask," he murmured, brow knotting, and Ciel's frown deepened because he knew the look of fear on Sebastian's face was most likely not that of rue, but that of concern for their contract, their promises, their relationship. And that made the tension in his chest run deeper, and he swallowed on a raw throat, and tried not to let the tears stinging his eyes build up and run over.

"Not even a fake prayer?" he husked.

Sebastian's brow creased further and for a moment, Ciel wanted to reconsider his evaluation of the devil, but he knew that would be sugarcoating everything. A feeling of desolation took root in his chest, behind all the tension. Sebastian's mouth drew into a solemn line, and he laced his fingers again, this time against his lips, eyes moving around the boy's face.

"Perhaps," Sebastian whispered, "the young master would still like it if I listened to _him_ pray, instead."

The tears were hot when they squeezed through his lashes and then cold already when they rolled down his cheeks and hit the pillow, and Ciel gripped the sheets as he wrestled with the compulsion and the logic, because his life was over already, what salvation did he have to pray to, and what help would he ever get from God again? He was wretched, he was fallen, he was dirty and sinful, and no amount of praying—not even just this once, when he wished for reassurance that he had not gone truly mad somewhere along the way—no amount of it would appease God's wrath at the path he'd taken and the companion he'd chosen for the rest of existence.

The blankets rustled as Ciel rolled over sharply; he threw himself up, latched onto Sebastian with his arms locked about his neck and his face smashed into his shoulder, and although Sebastian didn't move, his surprise was obvious on the air.

"_Dear God—_" Ciel began, choking the words out like a demand, and Sebastian's hands pressed respectfully to his back, settling there in comfort. For a moment, Ciel faltered, because he was afraid he'd forgotten how to pray, but then the instinctive urge came flooding back from memory and the words spilled from his mouth, and Sebastian was silent, and Sebastian held him, and Sebastian listened, and when the last of his tears had gone and the last of his words had faded and his eyes fell shut, Sebastian lay him down and tucked him in and picked up the papers and left.

And he came back, and knelt at the bedside, and he watched his master sleep until the hands on the clock read a quarter after two, and the coke in the fireplace needed stirring.

* * *

_Blinded to see the cruelty of the beast. Here is the darkest side of me. Forgive me for what I have been._

_Forgive me my sins._

* * *

Sebastian liked to call their loving debauchery "snacks". Perched on the edge of the tall bed in the master bedroom, pressing his thumb to his master's palm and watching as the pressure made his fingers twitch like the claws of a cat, smiling one of his mysterious smiles—sad, thoughtful, distant.

"You'll ruin your dinner," Ciel murmured now and again, and a wry little smile would play across Sebastian's face because the boy was a hypocrite. But Ciel did not notice these blunders—or would not confess to them—so Sebastian would chuckle and kiss his hand, and draw his rings off his thin fingers to place near his eye patch before pulling the blankets down to his toes and slipping a hand between the buttons of his master's nightshirt.

"But I have such a large appetite," he'd purr, and Ciel would either scoff, frown, or laugh, but usually he would turn his nose up and roll his body in just such a casual way that signified the beginning of a taste testing.

* * *

_My wounds cry for the grave. My soul cries for deliverance. Will I be denied? Christ. Tourniquet. My suicide._

* * *

Undercover.

They met behind circus tents and around the mouths of them to discuss the investigation, and one time, behind a cluster of tents and out of view for the time being, Ciel had pressed close to him and whispered against his chest that he missed being taken care of. And Sebastian had laughed, and ran his fingers through his hair, and told him that he appreciated that, and promised him a hot cup of black tea when they got home. And somewhere overhead, beyond the tents and in the forest lying further out, a blackbird had cawed, and Ciel had craned up on his toes and Sebastian had kissed him on the mouth—a dry kiss, a chaste kiss—and then there was a rustle of tent fabric and they scurried back out into the open area, one a little after the other so as not to look suspicious. And maybe that blasted tent-mate of his had noticed, but he—she—the kid hadn't said anything, not after a single admonitory glance and a fabricated smile in return.

The need burned in his chest at night—burned very strongly—but Ciel was in Tent 8, and Sebastian was in Tent 9.

He tossed and turned and buried his face in the pillow and couldn't sleep, because something was missing—maybe it was control, out of his hands for the time being—and that turned everything he'd so carefully constructed upside down on him.

* * *

_There's a fine line between love and hate and I don't mind, just let me say that I like that._

_I like that._

* * *

There was his asthma, of course, there to ruin his life.

It had been a long time since he'd caught a fever that brought on an attack as severe as the one he'd suffered at the circus. The first day after he'd collapsed was relatively okay except for the tightness of his chest and the tingling in his exhausted muscles and the way he just couldn't get comfortable in the cot (with or without his tent-mate there to complicate things), couldn't move without making himself dizzy—but once Sebastian had retrieved the information needed and they'd returned to the townhouse in London, the relief and the comfort were just too much, he'd missed it all so, and three days became a foggy and haphazard chain of events as his breathing smoothed for the time being and the fever raged through his system. Nothing cognitive or fully coherent, nothing that truly made sense by measures of time—just images and scenes that he recalled happening one after the other, separated by periods of sweaty rest, tosses and turns.

Sebastian had come and gone, probably bringing broths and teas that would have been exquisite if he could sit up to eat, the door opening and closing quietly—and sometimes Ciel would hear it, and sometimes he would open his eyes and Sebastian would suddenly be standing at the foot of his bed—and every time he rolled over and registered that Sebastian was in the room, he smiled, and words ran through his groggy mind, idle and fogged-up as it was. _Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore... _And once—just once—when the fever was at its highest, just before breaking, he'd held his hands up for Sebastian and whispered, "'Tis some visitor, tapping at my chamber door—only this, and nothing more." And Sebastian had smiled his soft, alluring smile, brushed damp hair from his young master's temple, and ran a fresh, cold cloth over the hot skin.

Simple, random, insignificant things—Sebastian bringing tea, Sebastian bringing food. Sebastian washing his face, Sebastian fixing his blankets. Sebastian at the foot of his bed, Sebastian at the door. Sebastian cleaning things across the room, Sebastian beside him in the hallway as he tottered towards the bathroom, Sebastian's hand on his forehead, Sebastian smoothing his shirt from his shoulders and the cool air hitting his skin—

Somewhere in that incoherent amount of blended time, he'd had a dream. It had started out with him sitting somewhere wide and empty, cold cobblestone wet against his rear end. And he'd looked around but couldn't see much but the moonlight, and he'd felt heavy and hindered by invisible chains; he'd tried to stand up but hadn't been able to, and then— And then, echoing, liquescent through the silence, calling his name. _Ciel. Ciel. Ciel. _No, _Young master. Young master. Young master. _And a raven perched on something just under the moon, and as Ciel stared at it, the colors bled together and when he blinked, the scene in his dream fluttered away and a new one surfaced, and he lay beneath goose-down comforters with a hot water bottle warm against his toes, and Sebastian was perched at the end of his bed, one leg over the other, smiling softly with fingers laced about one knee. Ciel smiled, comforted by the glimpse of reality, closed his eyes and felt the scene changing again, but then Sebastian spoke and Ciel realized that he was going nowhere because he was awake.

"Freud and the other psychologists of this time have such short attention spans," Sebastian murmured, as if the topic was quite disappointing. Ciel pried his eyes open, peered at the young man at the foot of his bed with a furrowed brow and glazed eyes.

Sebastian shifted, tucked hair behind his ear and propped his elbow on his knee, his chin on his knuckles. Smiled. Smiled his indecipherable smile. "The human mind is so interesting, complex and simple and horrifying at the same time. It's psychological, isn't it, young master? Your want for me is a disorder, a product of the trauma during your time as a child. Isn't it, my lord?"

Ciel stirred, croaked, "Excuse me?" as he pushed himself up on his elbow. But his arm was weak and his head heavy, and he hovered just inches above the pillow, cocked at an awkward angle, shocks of bed-tousled hair falling into his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Sebastian's smile softened and he drummed his fingers along his chin. Gloves. His gloves were missing. They'd been gone before, too, back at the circus. Ciel looked around for them, but didn't care enough; his eyes darted back over to meet Sebastian's as he spoke again, and his arm ached and he crumpled down onto the pillow and simply stared, suspicious, dry lips parted and breath picking up anxiously.

"I am the victim of the revenge of your subconscious mind," Sebastian whispered, and his voice was liquescent, sweet and smooth on the air, warm on the ears. "I am the object of the lust you have but do not know how to channel. I am the face connected to the end of your trauma, so you trust me with your life, your person, your lust, your revenge, your love—that is the reason you direct your desires at me, all of your hungers."

Ciel's eyes were heavy but he kept them open; he could physically feel his expression clouding over, not quite believing these things although they somehow made sense, anyway. Made him feel embarrassed and guilty and caught red-handed, and far too simple for his liking.

"You're a bastard," he husked.

"I'm your cure and your disease. And a bastard." Sebastian chuckled, and Ciel wanted to slap him. His fingers tightened on his pillowcase with the urge for violence. "I am the sacrifice for your psychological gain; I am the victim upon which you are reasserting your masculinity, your pride, your _control_. I am the embodiment of your recapitulation, whether you realize it, or mean it that way, or not." Sebastian shifted again, this time climbing from the chair and moving up the side of the bed. Ciel watched him, eyes dazed, but sharp enough. Sebastian smiled down at him, lashes lowered on an honest, burgundy stare, confident and frank.

"Really," Sebastian whispered, rolling up his sleeves. "Civilizations centuries ago were more advanced than this great England of yours, I hate to say it. The scientists of this day and age should be able to come to these conclusions, don't you think? They're not that far-fetched, but these men are so utterly obsessed by their exploration of the shadows that they're missing vital moment here. It all explains so much about you, right down to the way you're squirming in your bed right now."

"I'm _angry_," Ciel growled, but it came out sounding more like a groan, a plead. He frowned deeply. "You're out of line—"

"Do you want me, young master?"

Ciel put his hands up, waving away Sebastian's, but Sebastian was only reaching for the porcelain wash basin near the bed. Ciel's hands fell back to the bedding, defeated; his brow creased and he closed his eyes, too exhausted, too sick for this.

"Do you want to love me? Do you want to take it out on me, the confusion for why your body does the things it does?" Sebastian uttered a weary sigh, and if he hadn't been such a deceitful and devious being, it might have been loving, or doting, or soft. But as things were, it was just another reason for Ciel to stiffen in his blankets.

Sebastian smiled, wringing the wash cloth. "You know, I'm sure that past the externalizing of your betrayal and inability to grasp the _whys, _the _hows_... Past that and the fact that I am the essence of pleasure and whimsical sin, the embodiment of damnation and temptation... Past those things and our obvious contract, I think that maybe our souls have a little connection that hides from your understanding, behind the walls of stubborn apathy you've built for yourself. In fact, I feel honored to be the victim of your disorder, young master. ...I rather like it."

"Ohhh..." Ciel breathed, and he winced at how much the sound had resembled a whimper; Sebastian's hand was cold against his face and his lashes fluttered open, meeting Sebastian's eyes. He bit his lip, because there was something tight in his chest that was not his illness, something that stirred at such a warm look in Sebastian's eye, a look that contradicted the cruelty of the things he'd been saying. And, oh, in his chest—something tight and heavy and painful, something emotional, something guilty. And his skin crawled, and his heart raced, and his knees quivered as they twitched together and the sheets whispered away from his hips. Nobody was allowed to be right about all of this. The need, he wasn't supposed to feel it right now. But he just wanted Sebastian to stop being _right—_

"Sebastian, why do you say those things?" he whispered, but he was met with a short silence.

"You're so feverish," Sebastian murmured a few moments later, and his voice was concerned enough to be convincing. Like he should cluck his tongue in worry, like he should be cooing like a nursemaid.

"_Sebastian—_"

"Someone very intriguing told me that a butler should be nice to his master, especially when he's sick. _Especially_ when his sick master is but a child, who only wants to be nurtured."

"I am not a child," Ciel countered, but his voice was weak and weary, and his lashes fell shut again as Sebastian took the wet cloth to his face, his neck, his chest. The air was cold, the moisture colder. His skin prickled with the chill, his legs trembled again; he licked his dry lips.

Sebastian wrung the cloth out over his stomach, and Ciel gasped as the cold water dribbled against his skin, just above his navel. How long had his shirt been open like this? He didn't remember Sebastian unbuttoning it. He gasped again as another trickle of water fell lower, inside his belly button, carefully calculated to drop there, cold and strange-feeling. And a third, this time between his belly and his hips, and Ciel's body shifted, eyes rolling open.

"Don't," he whispered, chest fluttering with his breath. Not pinching anymore, but his gasps whistled. He met Sebastian's eyes, brow knotting. "Don't, please. It's cold..."

Sebastian said not a word; he wrung the cloth again, and a fourth drop of water landed on the warm skin just above his groin, and Ciel uttered a groan of exasperation, but did not roll away.

Another few drops.

Sebastian ducked down and his nose brushed the shell of his little master's ear as he whispered, "One day, light will chase away the shadows that surround the mysteries of the mind. One day you will die and you can sit with me in eternity and watch the world change and grow until you will never recognize it again."

The brush of a thumb, somewhere delicate.

Ciel's heart fluttered, in excitement and in relief and in consternation.

Another drip of water.

A smile.

Ciel gripped the blankets, breathing a long, soft moan, and he was sure that the only reason it squeaked was because his throat was dry.

The cold cloth touched his forehead as Sebastian gently dabbed away the sweat and tried to soothe the heat.

Ciel thought later, mind murky with the flu and the borders around reality blurring, that it must have been a dream, because, ill or not, he would never allow Sebastian to talk to him like that.

* * *

_And I demand you put my heart back in my hand and wipe it clean from the mess you made of me. And I require you make me free from this desire and when you leave, I'd better be the innocent I used to be._

* * *

At some point in the fog of his fever, the last dream-like reality before the fever broke and he really woke up, a thought arose.

It was when he needed to use the toilet, staggering with Sebastian to the bathroom in what looked like early morning but could very well have been early evening—the pale blue of the sky as the sun hovers near the horizon, to go up or to go down, tranquil and alluring, and what time it truly was, he was not for sure, and his head hurt from sleeping—that he really considered it.

He stood in front of the toilet, in its little corner space with the door to the rest of the bathroom open behind him, fingers dusting the smooth grip of the pull-chain as he peered into the shadows around the contraption and sleep tried to reclaim him on his feet. And as the rush of water echoed in his ears, the thought came.

_What if I go back into the bathroom and Sebastian isn't there? _

Ciel shifted on his feet, the marble smooth and cold beneath his bare skin.

_He would never, he's not inclined to. _

_What if he just flitted away and breached contract?_

_He would never. _

_What if he had never stumbled upon you? What if you left this bathroom and everything was different—what if your parents were sleeping in their room and your dog was near the hearth—what if you had to walk back to your room alone? _

_What if Sebastian was never there?_

He fell still, considering a world like that for a long moment.

Ciel pulled the chain on the toilet—and then blinked a few times, realigning with the wakeful world a bit more as he realized he'd already flushed.

I don't want to live without him, he told the whispering thoughts in the back of his head. I don't want innocence and carefree afternoons chasing butterflies with Lizzy and I don't want sunshine and I don't want ignorance. I want—

There was a gentle rap on the door to the commode as Sebastian peered around its edge, looking concerned and soft in the darkness. Ciel peered at him over his shoulder, lashes lowered.

"Hello," he whispered.

"Young master, are you alright?" One of Sebastian's perfect brows cocked, and then both furrowed, and Ciel smiled.

"Falling asleep on my feet," he explained, lifting his hands in helplessness—and he chuckled at himself, meekly.

And Sebastian smirked faintly, gave a curt nod and scooped his little master up into his arms in one swift, gentle motion. Ciel felt his nightshirt shifting about his knees, feet dangling high above the ground; he pressed his nose into Sebastian's lapels, and let his eyes fall shut. And to his mind, he finished:

—this, and only this.

* * *

_I give it all to you. I offer up my soul._

_I know it's already over now._

* * *

Outside, the snow fell. Light and soft, little flurries just enough to blanket the ground outside the manor. The year was drawing to an end, the dawn of 1890 not even three weeks away; behind him were the sounds of cleaning, dishes stacking and rags sweeping. From out the open door and drifting up from over the balcony came the soft hum of the violins, and Elizabeth's voice carried with it, giggling and amiable. She'd had her eye on that blond musician since they'd stepped into the vestibule, and Ciel had smiled because that was good.

He hadn't wanted anything for this birthday, just some peace and quiet and maybe a game or two—chess might have been interesting, with Sebastian. But as it had happened, Lizzy had shown up—and from the townhouse, the Indian prince, with his manservant—and Lau, of course, with the girl always on his arm—and Ciel had had a feeling that Sebastian had been behind it all, smiling his curious smile.

The laughter of the guests—his fiancée, his friends—echoed up from over the balcony, and Ciel huffed a dainty breath, peering out into the falling snow. Past the reflection of Sebastian stacking the dessert dishes, fluttering white and a purple-gray sky, stars peeking through.

"Are you going to eat me tonight?"

The clink of dishes stopped, and Sebastian was silent at first, but Ciel felt his eyes—could see the startled look on his face and the way he peered at him, in the reflection on the windowpanes.

"Are you impatient, young master?" Sebastian whispered, and Ciel's eyes lowered; Sebastian's footsteps were soft and nearly inaudible on the carpeted floor. And then his presence, warm, buzzing on the air beside him.

"No."

"The means of our contract haven't been met just yet—" Sebastian began, but he fell quiet as Ciel's gaze cut over to meet his, dark and poignant. He licked his lips, relaxed into a tender smile, touched a hand to his master's shoulder and stooped down to brush a few rebellious strands of hair back behind his ear.

"It's your birthday, young sir," he whispered. "You're thinking too much, wanting to break a binding contract."

"I never said I wanted to give up." Ciel pressed his fingertips to the glass of the window, and the chill zipped down his arm. He sighed, faintly, felt Sebastian's reflected eyes on him, heavy and intense. "I was just seeing if you were getting restive, that's all."

"No, my lord. Although I'm hungry, you keep me satisfied enough."

Ciel's eyes flickered over to meet those of Sebastian's in his reflection, and he felt his brow knot before he could fully stop the frown from crossing his face. His chest tightened in a sensation a little bit foreign, a little bit unnerving, but somehow warm in its ache—and he drew his hand away from the window, fumbling with the ring on his thumb.

Sebastian drifted away to finish cleaning, and the snow fell. Ciel watched it, and every time laughter or voices rang louder than usual from down in the hall below, the tension in his chest moved lower and lower, pooling in his gut while a subtle ache struck up in his throat.

"I am a corrupted soul," he said, and his voice cut through the silence, sharper than the rattle of dish against silver. The wheels of the tray cart stopped squeaking as they moved from one end of the table to the other, and in the window, Ciel caught Sebastian's eye again. He smiled, curtly.

"Lizzy," he whispered. "My family, my friends. _God_. Nothing can change my course anymore. I've turned my back on it all—on life, on heaven—and I've done so voluntarily. A little lamb stained in red, throwing itself at a lion."

Sebastian shifted, laying his cleaning on the corner of the table. Out the door and over the balcony, in the vestibule, the hired violinists struck up Beethoven's _Quasi Una Fantasia_. How utterly trite.

"'O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable'," Ciel murmured, and turned slightly, grinning at the butler near the table. "Mrs. Rodkin has this horrible obsession with that childish play. She quotes it all the time."

Sebastian smiled, and it looked the most humanly troubled smile that had ever played across his pretty face.

"I sold my soul to a devil just to survive," Ciel whispered, fingers meeting the cool window again. He drummed them there, nails ticking against the glass. His smile faded, and he peered at Sebastian through his lashes. "...and I am his just as much as he is mine." He paused, licked his lips. Searched Sebastian's face from across the room, trying to decipher the look in his ruddy, unpredictable eyes. "...I'd die to know he feels this, too..."

"Young master, your mind is in very distressing places right now. Allow me to escort you downstairs, where you can get it off matters such as that—"

"_No_." His voice was brusque and clear in the room, and somehow, echoed by the sad cry of the violins, Sebastian's expression grew more and more startled, more and more concerned. Ciel glanced away, back out the window. The fluttering snow, his pinched face. He looked too young; he didn't like it.

"The contract," he murmured. "That is the rest of my life, and I wouldn't want it any other way. You, and our unholy sacrament, all of it. That's the rest of my 'life'."

There was a silence, the soul-stirring voices of the violins, and then Ciel turned and smiled at Sebastian again, meekly, lashes lowered on a blue eye that was raw, turbid with emotion. Sebastian peered back, brow furrowing and cherrywood eyes softening in another moment of rarity, of fallibility. Ciel's fingers trailed away from the window, leaving a few marks of warmth there. "Sebastian..."

Sebastian straightened, lifted his chin and regarded his master as engrained butler etiquette pulled him to do, but whatever fabricated formalities he'd accepted upon taking the title of _butler_ dissipated, if only for a moment, in the way Ciel peered at him from across the room, the blue of his visible eye seeming to shatter into a million different shards of the color, little tears welling up upon his lashes even with a smile written across his lips. He drew in a breath, and even with the tears threatening to break away into the open, he looked regal and proud, and Sebastian smiled. Ciel's little lips parted, and he murmured:

"...I am not ashamed of that."

* * *

_Theatre of all vanity, the hell for which I yearn: _

_wild and raging beneath my feet. _

_My life. _

_My death._

**end.**


End file.
